New Things, Old Issues

8-17

It's been way too long since I wrote anything down here. A great deal has happened, and I don't even know where to start. As I've done before, I'm making this a two-parter. First, the organic, animal-plant related incident, and second, the human experience.


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Last Sunday. I really struggled through the hymns last week.
There was nothing there to sink my teeth into. Maybe someone else would have been edified by them, but this wasn't my Sunday. And it's not like I hadn't prepared my heart. It just wasn't working for me. On the other hand, the teaching was good--deep, meaty stuff, like the Selah sisters are spoiled on.

Anyway, I did wish for more inspiring music. My heart wanted to soar, to commune with God, and the best I could do was to try to create some pretty harmony.

And so I was ready to empathize with my garden visitor that evening. I was out with the dogs behind the vegetable garden, waiting for them to take care of "things," when a commotion came out of nowhere, seemingly from everywhere at once.

There were suddenly four or five robins in the mulberry tree, screaming and flying from branch to branch. At the same time, my little dog was straining against the rabbit fencing, trying to get into the garden, growling and barking. Meanwhile a fledgling robin was scurrying around the garden, trying to find a way out. He had apparently flown in, and did not know how to get enough lift to clear the top.

First of all, I put the dogs in the house. No sense riling up these angry robins (Why so many?). Next, I went and got a towel. A large, thick towel. The baby was still there, so I quickly dropped the towel onto him. This quieted him down, and the other birds quieted down, too. I reached to gently pick up the little lump, but he escaped and flew to one of the bottom rungs of the fence--behind a tomato plant. There he was, straining his way through the wiring, but getting caught at the shoulders. He tried this over and over, in different spots, making the same mistake again and again. He was straining so hard, I was afraid he would hurt himself.

I finally lunged through the twine tomato cage, breaking a steak, but I got my towel-covered hands around the little fellow. Of course, he made a lot of noise, and immediately the parents, aunts and uncles (or whoever they all were) began to scream and carry on again, but I did what I had to do. I lifted him to the point where he could clear the fence and soar--or whatever equivalent of soaring a fledgling robin is capable of.

As I said, I could empathize with this scared little bird. While I have a little mileage behind me, I didn't seem to have the "lift" I needed to soar past the fencing of unfamiliar music in an unfamiliar service. I tried every way I knew--trying to get through, around, everywhere but over, to get to God. Ironic, isn't it? Worship is supposed to be all about God, and here I was, all focused on the worship minister, the music, the organist, every direction but the right one. All I needed to do was look up, but I did not. Did I look to God? Did I pray for the hands of God to lift me up so I could soar? I wish I had. It would be a neat, triumphant blog, wouldn't it?

The good news is, a baby robin came along and taught me a simple lesson. It's the Hand of God, not my own striving, that even makes me capable of worship. So a little change of focus could make this new church experience much more meaningful.